


Sushi or Not Sushi, That is the Question

by AtypicalOwl



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Ensemble Cast, Fluff, Gen, Humor, background E/R and Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta, no avocados were harmed in the making of this fic, not a shipping fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-31 23:10:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3996703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtypicalOwl/pseuds/AtypicalOwl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Enjolras and Grantaire are tasked to make sushi, for Reasons of Great Justice. </p><p>Also, in which the question "HOW DID YOU SET THE SUSHI ON FIRE?" gets asked.</p><p>Repeatedly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sushi or Not Sushi, That is the Question

“Okay, remind me why we’re doing this?” Grantaire said, hefting a bag of rice onto the counter and eyeing the package of raw fish sitting next to the stove with a suspicious expression.

“Reasons of Great Justice,” Eponine said, watching safely from her perch on the kitchen table and sipping a cup of sake.

“We have to impress the local councilman,” Enjolras explained, exasperated, as he unwrapped a package of dried seaweed. “This is our first shot at real political change on the local scale. I told you this at least three times at the meeting.”

“Okay, but like, can’t we do that without having to make sushi for him?” Grantaire said. “Don’t get me wrong, I like sushi. I mean, what’s a little more mercury and scales and raw fish meat in my stomach? Yum.” He stuck his tongue out. “But man, how are we supposed to actually make decent enough sushi that he’ll go for it? And does that count as a bribe or something? Are we going to end up in the newspaper for a sushi scandal?”

“Well, for your former point, that’s why we’re practicing tonight,” Enjolras said. “So we have it down pat when we actually have to do it for real. And for the latter, technically he’s just our dinner guest. The fact that we’re making his favorite food is incidental.”

Grantaire sighed, and started digging around in a drawer. “And we’re doing it in my kitchen because?”

“Because you never use it, so if you break stuff, it’s no big deal,” Eponine said.

“Hey, I use my kitchen! All the time! I’m practically a gourmet chef!” Grantaire protested, pulling out a wooden spoon that looked brand new. “I reheat stuff in the microwave all the time, and don’t get me started on the kind of action that coffee pot sees! Did you know you can make ramen in it? You don’t even need to drag out an actual pot! Look out Food Network, here I come.”

Enjolras made a small, pained noise. “We’re doomed,” he muttered. “I love you, but we’re doomed. Why are you even helping me if ramen is the extent of your culinary prowess?”

“I’m your boyfriend. It would be like, against the rules if I didn’t. Besides, I—”

“He’s your best option,” Eponine cut him off. “Cosette’s dad does all the cooking in their house. Marius is kind of a decent cook but he would let everything burn because he’d get distracted by Cosette. Letting Bahorel into a kitchen is ten kinds of a bad idea — I still get nightmares about what that man did to that poor, defenseless pot of spaghetti. Courfeyrac is excused because his mom was mauled by a wild marsala sauce and his family has been forced to exist off of pizza and Chinese ever since. Anything resembling gourmet cooking gives him flashbacks.”

Grantaire blinked, trying to parse Eponine’s statements. “And Feuilly?” he asked.

“Feuilly’s allergic to seafood. Thus, why he was not invited tonight. I’m told that killing your friends is bad etiquette.”

Grantaire stared in disbelief. “Who’s teaching you etiquette?”

Enjolras interrupted before that train of thought could derail the conversation further. “Well, what about Combeferre? You didn’t mention him.”

“Actually, he’s an awesome cook, but he’s out of town until after the dinner, otherwise he totally would be in there instead of Grantaire.” Eponine hopped off the kitchen table and gestured at them. “But you know what? Honestly, since Grantaire can be trusted to boil water and stir in noodles and seasoning without burning the place down, he really is your best bet for this.”

“Thanks, Eponine, for the vote of confidence.” Grantaire said dryly.

“Any time,” she replied breezily, turning to Enjolras. “Look, sushi is easy, I Googled it. The hardest part is the rice, and it’s like, intermediate difficulty ramen.” She pulled her tablet out of her bag and set it on the counter, then tapped a few things to bring up the recipe. “You boil it, you stir in sugar and vinegar, you make fucking sushi with it.”

Enjolras sighed. “If you say so.”

“Hang on,” Grantaire said. “How come you’re not helping?”

“It’s so much more fun to heckle you.” And with that, she turned and headed for the living room. “Let us know when it’s ready, we are hungry and are prepared to be dazzled,” she threw over her shoulder.

Grantaire watched her navigate carefully around the couch and step over Marius and Cosette’s legs, only to plop gracelessly on the coffee table. He winced as it swayed slightly; IKEA furniture wasn’t the greatest at holding up to Eponine. “How are you all even fitting in there?” he called.

“We are a very touchy-feely group,” Jehan called back. It was hard to see over the back of the couch, but he was either sitting on the arm of the chair Bahorel was in, or he was actually sitting on Bahorel.

“Hey Marius, can you hand me my cup?” Eponine asked.

Marius twisted around on the couch and, with an impressive stretch and Cosette hanging onto the back of his shirt, he was indeed able to grab Eponine’s cup of sake from the kitchen table.

Grantaire snorted. Sometimes having a tiny house sucked, but sometimes it was good for the sheer comedic value his friends could bring to it. “Well, guess we should get started,” he said, turning back to Enjolras. “I’ll babysit the rice, so if you can just chop and prep the veggies and stuff, then we can work on assembling it together.”

“Mm, fine,” Enjolras said. He bent down and opened a cupboard. “Where do you keep your cutting boards?”

“Bottom left,” Grantaire replied promptly.

Enjolras shot him a look of disbelief.

Grantaire shrugged. “Sometimes I like to chop up hot dogs for my ramen.” He snickered at the look of disbelief on Enjolras’s face. “Knives are next to the coffee pot.” He hefted a large pot over to the sink and started filling it with water. “I looked at Eponine’s recipes earlier. We’re not doing anything mega fancy, just white people sushi. California rolls and shit. It’s gonna be fine.”

Enjolras examined the knife block, which was missing everything except the steak knives, then sighed and reached for a carrot. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said.

“Relax. Unlike Bahorel, I have yet to burn water,” Grantaire said, setting the filled pot on the stove and turning on the burner. “Trust me, it’s gonna be fine.” He leaned in and pecked Enjolras on the cheek. “We’re gonna be celebrating around the table with sake in no time!”

And, indeed, it seemed like things would be fine. Despite the less than ideal knife, Enjolras didn’t have as much trouble chopping as he thought he was going to. He said as much.

“See? You don’t need all those fancy schmancy paring and butcher knives!” Grantaire teased. “Garage sale ones work just fine!”

“For hot dogs, maybe,” Enjolras said. “I’d still prefer something bigger.”

“That’s what she said.”

“Really, Grantaire?”

“Come on, you have to admit, that was the perfect set-up. It would have been a crime to let it go.”

“Just shut up and boil the water.”

Grantaire, true to his word, got the rice started without incident, and was soon puttering around behind Enjolras, getting the mixture of vinegar and sugar ready. His kitchen was small, but he was used to getting all up in Enjolras’ business, whether at meetings or just for the sake of teasing his boyfriend. They moved around each other well, Grantaire darting behind Enjolras to get to the pantry or Enjolras reaching over him for the fake crab meat, always dodging each other and never actually colliding.

After about a quarter of an hour, the timer Grantaire had set went off, and he triumphantly snatched the pot of rice off the stove. “Woo! We’re getting there!”

Enjolras was concentrating so intently on dicing some Spam that the beeping and Grantaire’s exclamation startled him, and his elbow knocked the package of dried seaweed sideways. “Whoops!”

“You okay?” Grantaire asked, swinging the pot of rice towards the sink.

“Yeah, I didn’t cut myself.”

“Awesome. Sushi is so much better without blood in it. I’ll just start rinsing this, you wanna start rolling out the — oh shit.”

The seaweed had skittered right across the counter and onto the still-glowing burner. It was now on fire.

“Aw, shit,” Grantaire said.

“Ah, ah,” Enjolras squeaked, “it’s on fire, it’s on fire, oh no, oh no!”

“Calm down, it’s just seaweed, I’ll just…” Grantaire moved to turn off the burner.

“No, w-wait,” Enjolras was nearly hyperventilating. “I’ve got this, I can—” Enjolras, unfortunately, was faster in his panic. He seized the bottle of sake Eponine had been sipping earlier, and —

“NO YOU DON’T GOT THIS!”

There was a great FOOM, and Grantaire closed his eyes against the burst of heat and light. Then, ringing silence.

Grantaire opened his eyes. He looked at Enjolras, holding the empty bottle of rice wine. He looked at his ceiling, where the scorch marks erased any possibility of getting his damage deposit back. He looked at the stove, which had a layer of alcohol and fire on top of it. As he watched, the fire burned itself out, leaving nothing but more scorch marks and a packet of smoldering seaweed.

From the living room, Musichetta called, “Guys, is sushi really supposed to smell like burning hair? Because I’m ordering pizza if it does.”

Grantaire took this whole scene in silently. He took a deep breath, inhaled the scent of alcohol and burnt seaweed. He carefully set the pot of rice on a potholder next to the sink, then turned back to Enjolras. He took another deep breath, held it, and then shouted, “HOW THE EVERLIVING FUCK DID YOU SET SUSHI ON FIRE?!”

“HOW INDEED?” came a chorus of voices from the living room.

“Need some help in there?” Bahorel called.

There was a series of thumps and “oofs” as the rest of the individuals in the living room tackled Bahorel to prevent him from entering the kitchen. Despite having someone clinging to each limb and Eponine sitting on his back, he seemed unperturbed. “Come on, I can help!”

“No way,” Jehan said, gripping Bahorel’s ankle more tightly. “Do you remember the time you burnt ice? Oh no, you’re not going anywhere near that kitchen.”

“Come on man, that was one time, and I was making Baked Alaska!”

“You almost set the actual state of Alaska on fire!”

Belatedly, a smoke alarm started going off, a piercing wail that had Eponine scrambling in to find a chair to stand on and poke the button that would silence it.

Grantaire turned back to Enjolras, whose face had a strange mixture of sheepishness and terror on it.

“So, panicky pyrophobia, huh?” Grantaire said. “That’s new.”

Enjolras reached out a tentative hand towards Grantaire, who was still breathing heavily. “You’ve got a piece of seaweed ash in your hair.”

“Don’t. Touch me. Right now,” Grantaire growled.

“Grantaire, you’re smoking,” Cosette said, peering over Bahorel’s shoulder.

From somewhere around Bahorel’s left wrist, Marius made a whining noise. “’Sette, you can’t just say that about another man’s boyfriend, especially when you’re this man’s girlfriend.”

“No I mean he’s literally smoking. Enjolras, would you please be a not-panicky dear and dump a glass of water on your boyfriend’s head or something? I think his hair might still be on fire.”

Enjolras made a pained, strangled noise, and flailed around wildly. “Shit shit shit shit,” he said eloquently.

Grantaire just sighed and leaned into the sink, turning the tap on and letting the spray douse his hair.

“Yes! Found it! Good!”

Grantaire didn’t bother to look up and see what had Enjolras so happy and excited. In retrospect, he should have. Perhaps he could have talked his boyfriend out of ripping the pin from his fire extinguisher and spraying Grantaire from head to toe.

Grantaire stiffened, and straightened, his soggy hair plastered to the top of his head and his tshirt plastered to his back by the white spray. He took yet another deep breath, and considered the possibility that there was not enough oxygen on the planet to calm himself down or even make sense of this situation. “What,” he said, and he was proud of himself that the word came out calm and flat. “What. Why did you do that.”

“I’m sorry! I panicked!” Enjolras squeaked. “They didn’t teach me this stuff in middle school! All I know is stop drop and roll, but that doesn’t really help if your boyfriend’s hair is on fire, and then I remembered the fire extinguisher, and that is at least something I know how to do and—”

“Stop, just stop,” Grantaire bit out. “It was just a little ember in my hair, and yes, okay, my head being on fire is not the most ideal situation, but was it really necessary to spray me from head to toe? This was my favorite pair of jeans!”

Enjolras looked sheepish, but whatever excuse he might have made was cut off by Musichetta, who had extracted herself from the pile and was holding up her phone. “Okay guys,” she said, “pizza’s gonna be here in twenty minutes.”

Enjolras puffed up like an offended tropical bird. “Oh, come on, have a little faith. We can still salvage this, right Grantaire?”

Grantaire looked from Enjolras to the scorched stove and the smoking seaweed, then to the piles of chopped ingredients scattered on the counter, and the pot of rice that was sitting forgotten next to the sink, slowly going mushy. “Maybe we can make soup out of it? I don’t know.” He popped a piece of carrot into his mouth, then immediately spat it out. “Ew! You got fire extinguisher gunk on everything!”

Musichetta smiled sweetly. “This _is_ having faith. I didn’t tell the pizza guy ‘please get here faster while there’s still a house standing to deliver to.’”

Grantaire stalked over to the table and sat down heavily. “Jesus, Eponine,” he said, and Eponine stopped taking pictures of the Bahorel-pile and looked up. “Why didn’t you warn me that Enjolras is a kitchen menace too?”

She shrugged. “You never asked.”

Slowly, the pile of people started to pick themselves up and assume more dignified positions than “heap of human beings on the living room floor.”

Enjolras sat down on the other side of the table, also staring at the mess. “Well, look on the bright side,” he said.

“My landlord is going to kill me,” Grantaire mumbled. “This place is a rental, you know. I finally moved out of that shithole apartment and got an actual house and now my landlord is going to kill me. What bright side, Apollo? What fucking bright side?”

“Well,” Enjolras said, “You weren’t keen on eating the fish raw.” He pointed at the package of fish, which had gotten singed in the sake crossfire. “That’s definitely not a concern now.”

“Optimism, Enjolras, has its limits,” Grantaire ground out.

“I’m just saying, when we actually wine and dine the bigwig, it’s got to go well, because we got all the bad luck out ahead of time.”

Grantaire did not dignify that with a coherent response, instead letting out a strangled noise, which was appropriate, considering how much he currently wanted to strangle Enjolras. He settled for dropping his head into his hands.

“So, we’re not getting sushi tonight, are we?” Bahorel said, hanging off the side of Grantaire’s couch. “I was really looking forward to sushi.”

“You, my friend, have a certain poetic gift for the manifestly obvious,” Jehan said, patting Bahorel’s head consolingly.

“How are you even all fitting in my living room?” Grantaire asked his palms. “My house isn’t that big. How are you all even here?”

Grantaire never got an answer to his question, because ding dong, went the doorbell, and Musichetta sprang up. “That must be the pizza! Don’t worry, it’s on me, I had a Groupon…” She trailed off when she flung open the door, because instead of a pizza guy, there were firefighters there, in full safety gear.

“Uh, is everything okay?” The lead firefighter asked. “Your neighbors called 911 because they heard your alarm and saw flames.”

Grantaire stood up and started banging his head on the wall. _Thump, thump, thump._

Eponine snorted. “Sorry guys, false alarm. That idiot over there kind of lit the kitchen and his boyfriend on fire a bit, but we handled it.”

“Um, which one was on fire?” The firefighter asked, concerned.

“The one banging his head against the wall who is covered in fire extinguisher gunk.”

“And, is he… Okay?” The firefighter leaned in. “I mean, obviously he’s not on fire any more. In the head, I mean. Is he okay mentally?”

“Yeah, he’s fine. He just does that when his frustration levels exceed his coherency levels.”

“Ah.” The firefighter didn’t seem to have a good response.

“Out of the way, if there’s nothing currently actually on fire please get out of the way,” came a voice from behind the firefighter, and a paramedic pushed his way into the room. “Did I hear someone say that someone was on fire? Because that’s kind of not good, and I’d like to take a look at them.”

Musichetta, who had been basking in the attractiveness of the group of firefighters, took one look at the paramedic and quietly said, “Oh no, he’s hot.”

“What was that?” The paramedic asked.

“I said, ‘oh no, he’s not’. As in, he’s not currently on fire. Enjolras put him out very quickly.” She pointed at Grantaire, who had not ceased thunking his head against the wall, attempting to knock some sense into the craziness his life had become.

“Ohhhh dear,” the paramedic said, and bustled over to Grantaire. “Sir, please stop, you might have burns, and we don’t want to exacerbate your condition with a head injury. Can you look at me please? My name is Joly, what’s yours?”

While Joly the Hot Paramedic fussed over Grantaire, Musichetta leaned over to Jehan and said, “I may need you to play wingman for me.”

“Wait, what?” Jehan said.

The firefighters were hovering awkwardly. “Um, what were you trying to cook, anyway?” one asked, looking at the scorch marks above the stove.

“They were making sushi,” Eponine said flatly.

“What, seriously?”

“Yup.”

“How? How do you light sushi on fire?”

Eponine snorted. “I have no idea. But they managed it. Would you boys care for some sake?”

“We’re on duty, ma’am.”

“Um, there’s no more sake anyway,” Enjolras piped in. “It all kind of… Well, the bottle is empty because of the thing.”

“Wow Enj, that was eloquent,” Eponine said.

“Do you guys know any good recipes?” Cosette asked the firefighters. “Tonight was supposed to be their practice run for an event we have to cater, but it seems like plan A isn’t going to work out. Do you have any recommendations for something that isn’t likely to light our friend’s house on fire?”

“Uh, sure,” one of the firemen said. “I could give you our chili recipe; you just throw everything in a crock pot for a few hours. The only fire risk is metaphorical, depending on how much spice you put in.”

“Wonderful,” Cosette said. “That sounds perfect.”

“Uh, Grantaire?” Marius said, tilting his head to the side. “Did you know your eyebrows are, uh, kind of missing?”

Grantaire moaned.

Joly patted his knee sympathetically and continued smoothing the bandage on his forehead with the other hand. “It’s not so bad,” he said. “I see it all the time, with folks who put too much lighter fluid on their barbecues. You didn’t damage the follicles (and honestly, if you burned yourself badly enough to do that, you would have bigger concerns than your eyebrows), so they’ll grow back in a few weeks.”

“Wonderful,” Grantaire said flatly. “I am so fucking happy about that.”

“Ah, quit your griping,” Eponine said. “I’ve got a pencil in my makeup kit, I’ll just draw you new ones.”

“I’m going in,” Musichetta hissed to Jehan, and approached Grantaire and Joly. “So, how often do you have to deal with idiots and barbecues?” she asked.

Jehan made frustrated, confused motions with his hands. “What the heck kind of pick up line is that?” he hissed to Bahorel.

“I don’t know, but it’s working,” Bahorel whispered back, as Musichetta continued to make small talk with Joly. “Dude’s got heart eyes like the first day Marius and Cosette met.”

“Why did she even ask me to be her wingman if she has magical pick up lines about dumb people lighting themselves on fire?”

Bahorel patted Jehan’s shoulder. “She’s nice like that. Makes sure everyone feels involved.”

Ding dong, went the doorbell. Since the living room was a little cramped, one of the firefighters helpfully opened the door to reveal the pizza guy.

“Should we order more pizza for them?” Marius wondered.

The pizza guy (a patch on his shirt read Bossuet) took in the scene and shifted uncomfortably. “Um, six pizzas for this address?”

“Yes, that’s us,” Cosette said, taking the boxes from him.

“Do I smell smoke?” Bossuet asked.

“Yeah, their dinner plans didn’t go so well,” one of the firefighters said.

“I’m getting that impression,” Bossuet replied, unable to tear his eyes from the scorch marks on the ceiling. “Um, who’s paying for the pizza?”

He received a lot of shrugs and vague gestures in reply. Marius pointed towards the kitchen table.

Musichetta and Joly looked up and met his eyes, and Bossuet gulped. They both had the same expression on their faces: like they were on a fasting diet and he was a pizza pie with extra sausage.

Grantaire saw their expressions and dropped his head into his hands. “Can you please just finish first aiding me before you hook up with the pizza guy like we’re in a cheap porno?”

“Actually, you’re good to go,” Joly said to Grantaire. Turning to Musichetta, he reached into his case and drew out a slip of paper. “Here’s my card, um, in case any of your friends hurt themselves again and you need a paramedic.”

“Aww, that’s so thoughtful of you! You never know when my heart might need looking at.”

Bossuet snorted. “Among other regions.”

Grantaire made a gagging noise.

“Do you want some anti-nausea medication?” Joly asked, far too innocently.

Grantaire decided it would be better for his mental health if he focused on something other than the way both Musichetta and Joly started flirting with the pizza guy after Musichetta stood up to get her wallet.

Eponine meandered over to the kitchen table and joined Grantaire. “Good news, bad news time. Good news is: Cosette sweet talked the firefighters into giving us their chili recipe, and Marius didn’t even cry. So you’ve got a backup plan if the whole sushi thing doesn’t work out. Thanks guys!” The latter was directed towards the firefighters, who waved at everyone as they finally departed.

“Bad news: we’re probably not going to let either of you live this down for the rest of your lives. But hey, at least I’m giving you fair warning.”

Grantaire didn’t pay Eponine much attention; he was busy surveying his life and all of the decisions that had led him to this point. At least with (most of) the emergency personnel gone, he could begin to properly survey the damage.

Maybe if he painted over the scorch marks on the ceiling his landlord wouldn’t notice? How did one even paint a ceiling without dripping paint everywhere? He should ask Combeferre. That seemed like the kind of thing Combeferre would know.

Enjolras moved to a chair closer to Grantaire. “Do you smell something burning?”

“Enjolras, my hair was literally just on fire. Everything currently smells like it’s burning.”

Enjolras frowned. “No, something different, it smells like…” His eyes widened, and Grantaire came to the realization at the same time.

“SHIT, WE LEFT THE STOVE ON!”

In sync, they turned their heads and looked into the kitchen, where something had rolled onto the still-hot burner and was now aflame.

“Is that the avocado?” Grantaire asked, voice cracking slightly on the last word in incredulity.

“Wow. I didn’t know avocados could even burn,” Eponine said.

“Shit shit shit shit,” Enjolras said, springing to his feet and grabbing the discarded fire extinguisher. He pointed it at the flaming avocado and squeezed the handle, but it just made a clicking sound and belched out a pathetic trickle of white dust. “Oh shit oh shit it’s empty oh shit.”

“There is an avocado on fire on my stove and you used up the fire extinguisher on me and shit what do we do, dude? My landlord is going to kill me if I don’t die when my house burns down! Wait, I have a hose on my sink sprayer, I can just turn on the water and douse it and—”

 _Fwump,_ went the flaming avocado, which was not really a sound Grantaire expected a flaming avocado to make, under the circumstances. Then again, it was an appropriate sound for it to make as Eponine poured a carton of baking soda over it, extinguishing the flames. Grantaire hadn’t seen her get up, but then again, he was kind of distracted.

“Idiots,” she said, and turned the burner off. “Both of you, idiots. You would have burned this whole place down if I wasn’t here. Why is it I’m the only one in this house who has their shit together?”

“Uh,” Grantaire said.

“What.” Enjolras added.

“You don’t put out a grease fire with water,” Eponine explained, gesturing at the smoldering avocado with the empty baking soda box. “Just makes it worse.”

“But it was an avocado,” Enjolras protested. “More of a vegetable fire than anything, really. How did it even catch on fire, anyway? Aren’t they too moist for that? Was there sake on it?”

“Do you have any idea how much fat is in avocados?” Eponine asked, in a tone that said she not only knew the amount, but could rattle it off at a moment’s notice. “It counts as a grease fire, trust me.”

“But—” Grantaire started.

Eponine cut him off. “It. Counts.”

“Do I need to call the fire truck back?” Joly asked, making Grantaire jump. Grantaire hadn’t realized he was still there. “They’re only at the end of the block, they can be back here in like, 30 seconds if you guys want to keep setting stuff on fire.”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras said. “Grantaire, do you have any plans to play with matches tonight?”

Grantaire chose that moment to give up on his life. He threw his hands up in the air, stated his intention to give up aloud, and then laid facedown on the living room carpet.

“Nah, we’re good,” Eponine said, glaring at Enjolras and idly poking Grantaire with her toe. “I am banning these two men from the kitchen, and they are going to sit their pathetic asses down and eat the pizza that your new boyfriend so graciously provided. No more fire hazards tonight.”

“Actually, it might be a good idea,” Grantaire said, voice muffled by the carpet. “Because I'm about to set this place on fire with the sheer force of hate and exasperation in my heart."

“What is even going on?” Bossuet asked. “Stuff keeps catching on fire? People are flirting with me? You’re lying down on the floor? I’ve delivered to ruined dinners before, but this is hands down the weirdest delivery I’ve ever made.”

“I have no idea,” Grantaire replied. “If I get a clue, though, I’ll ask Musichetta for your number so I can call you and tell you.” He lifted his face off the carpet. “Hey, Enjolras? Toss me my wallet, would you? This guy deserves a truly astronomical tip.”

The wallet bounced off Grantaire’s head. He groaned. “Seriously? What is wrong with you? Don’t answer that.” He sat up, dug out a few bills, and handed them to Bossuet, who still looked incredibly confused.

“Man, and here I thought sushi night only went this badly in video games!” Jehan said, far too happily. “When do the corrupt mercenaries start to show up?”

“What mercenaries?” Enjolras asked baffled, at almost the same time Joly said, “Wait, you’ve played Mass Effect?”

“Oh my god yes,” Jehan said.

A gigantic smile broke out on Bossuet’s face. “Now this, I understand.”

“Okay, so the future of our friendship depends on this,” Joly said earnestly. “What ending did you pick?”

From there, the conversation descended into something that was either a heavy critique of the game’s storytelling or a discussion of color theory. Grantaire chose to tune most of it out, absently noting that everyone except Enjolras and Eponine was getting involved in the discussion as well.

“Looks like our little crew just got bigger,” Eponine said. “I don’t think we’re going to get rid of them. They’ve bonded over your sushi inferno. And apparently over space hamsters, whatever that has to do with anything.”

“Oh crap, I forgot I’m still on shift,” Bossuet said. “With my luck, my boss will turn out to be psychic and bust me for talking about video games on the clock.”

“I can walk you to your car if you want,” Joly said. “I’m still on call for another few hours, so I need to be getting back anyway.”

“Don’t forget me!” Musichetta said, linking arms with Joly and Bossuet and steering them out the front door. “Save some pizza for me, okay guys?”

Grantaire groaned.

“Yo, Grantaire, come here,” Eponine said, and her tone left no room for argument.

“Eponine, what? I don’t want to move.” Grantaire stood up anyway.

She waved an eyebrow pencil at him. “Get over here so I can draw you new eyebrows.”

“Fine.”

Somewhere, in the background, Jehan said something that sent Bahorel into a laughing fit.

“Hey guys,” Bahorel said when he recovered, still gasping from the laughter. “New plan, we’ve got a new plan.”

“Yeah,” Jehan said, snickering. “New, foolproof plan for changing the world. Just invite any and all corrupt establishments over for dinner and have Enjolras and Grantaire make them sushi. Boom, we get rid of them all at once, world peace."

“Granted,” Bahorel said, “we kind of risk Enjolras and Grantaire in the process, but seriously, instant world peace.”

“I hate you guys,” Grantaire said, gritting his teeth. He tried not to move, but whatever Eponine was doing with the pencil tickled.

Fortunately, she got it over with quickly. “There we go. All done.”

“Eponine,” Marius said, cautiously, half hiding behind Cosette as he spoke. “I don’t think eyebrows are supposed to be quite that shape.”

Cosette stared at Grantaire, tilted her head to the side, then to the other side. “I don’t know, I think he pulls it off.”

“Enjolras, what did she do?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras took one look at Eponine’s expression and said “I plead the fifth.”

“Hey R, do you want the Hawaiian pizza or the pepperoni?” Cosette called.

Grantaire sighed. All he could smell was burnt avocado and burnt seaweed and burnt hair; it was not the most appetizing combination. “I’m not that hungry right now. Hey, Enjolras, can you do me a favor?”

Enjolras held up his hands in defense. “No. Eponine is scary.”

“It’s not about my eyebrows.”

“Then, maybe. What is it?”

“The next time you need to impress someone with food, just have it catered?”

 

~~~~~

 

Later, Eponine took Gavroche aside and said to him, “This is why you don’t play with matches.” She then pointed to Grantaire.

Gavroche listened, and nodded, face solemn. “Okay ‘Ponine, but in the interests of full disclosure… This conversation is making me want to play with matches even more if I get to make Grantaire look like that.”

“Gavroche, no.”

“GAVROCHE YES.”

**Author's Note:**

> Endless and eternal thanks to [themerrygentleman](http://archiveofourown.org/users/themerrygentleman/profile), [fulldaysdrive](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fulldaysdrive/profile), and [snuggalong](http://archiveofourown.org/users/snuggalong/profile). Without you, this fic would never have come into being.


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